


Call Me Honeybum

by 72reasons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, I love them so much guys, Ice Skating, Jealous!Sherlock, John is adorable, M/M, Pet Names, Self-Loathing, Sherlock is a drama queen, We all need our ego stroked sometimes, broken wrist, just a bit of Captain Watson, my first porn, visit to A&E
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/72reasons/pseuds/72reasons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s arm is broken, but his real problem is that he is a sad gay baby who thinks he doesn’t deserve the love of the most perfect human being he’s ever known, John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Honeybum

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or britpicked. All mistakes are my own.

Sherlock curled up on the couch with his back to the room, breathing heavily. He didn’t even want a pillow for his head. Such an idiot does not deserve a pillow.

“What happened to you out there?”

Sherlock closed his eyes tighter and squeezed them one more time for emphasis. _My eyes are very much closed now, see?_ The extra squeeze usually earned a sigh from John but he couldn’t see his face.

_Squeeze._

Not as satisfying, but necessary just then.

John sighed. Sherlock sighed. This was when John would give up. He walked towards their room.

“I’m going to change and then I’ll help you get washed up if you want, or just changed into your bed clothes.”

He heard John walk down the hall to the bathroom and quietly close the door.

Sherlock lay there and replayed the last few hours in his head.

xxx

It will be fun, John said. Sherlock had gone along with it to please John, and Molly, he supposed. But mostly John.

He thought he’d go, hang around the café, maybe have some mulled wine and watch everyone make a fool of themselves, especially John. Maybe he could sneak into the Natural History Museum’s mineralogy lab. He hadn’t seen Robin in a while. But Molly had been adamant about everyone participating, and when John gave him ‘the look’ Sherlock was unable to resist.

At first, he felt fine. His balance was excellent and he’d been on skates before, many times. It had been years, but it isn’t something you forget. He even sort of got into it.

John was skating around the rink in slow counter-clockwise circles, with Molly and Lestrade. Sherlock caught up to him and grabbed his left hand with his right. Surprised, John exhaled loudly and wobbled a bit. He smiled up at Sherlock and winked. _How can it be that this man looks at me like this?_ Sherlock was still struck dumb at moments like these. John’s nose and ear tips were red, breath coming out in a fog, and smiling up at Sherlock with crinkling around his eyes. _There’s no way I deserve this man._

“Having fun, gorgeous?”

Sherlock sniffed and frowned a bit, “I suppose. I like looking at you, wobbling about.”

John scoffed, “Well, we can’t all be too tall, impossibly elegant, with impeccable balance and style.”

He looked away and blushed at John’s praise.

He dropped his hand and gave him a little shove. John swayed a bit but recovered nicely.

“Oi! Shit. I might break a hip, you know?”

Sherlock chuckled and rolled his eyes. He took off for the middle of the rink. Maybe he could do a few spins, as if he was dancing. He found a bit of open space within the large circle of skaters. He thought he could spin on one foot for at least one revolution. He tried it. _Well, that was sort of fun._ It really was a bit like a pirouette on the dance floor. Maybe he could do a double. Sherlock lost himself in the challenge of staying upright and avoiding dizziness. About a quarter of an hour later, his mind wandered to John, as it often did. He wondered if he could get John to go dancing with him sometime. Or maybe he could just bring John out here right now and spin him around a bit. He would probably giggle and flail and he could steady him with his arms around his waist. _Yes, that sounds right. Where is John? I need to get him out here with me._

He looked around and saw John immediately. He was no longer skating. He was hanging out at the opposite end of the rink, smiling at a woman who was outside of the rink, both leaning on the railing so that he could see their profiles. The woman was looking up at John through her eyelashes, with a flirtatious smirk, cleavage fully exposed by her leaning position and deep V-neck black sweater. She was tall and slim with a smart blonde bob. Sherlock could see her perfect teeth as she threw back her head to laugh at something John had said. John was staring at her breasts just then, tongue wetting his lower lip, but he quickly looked back into her eyes as she lowered her chin to continue their conversation, or flirtation rather, from Sherlock’s perspective.

Sherlock was fairly confident that John loved him. But seeing John flirt with a beautiful woman twisted something in his chest. He could never be beautiful like that. He could never be new, unknown, a conquest like that, ever again. He’d seen John talking with beautiful women before, like the new Constable at the Yard who took one look at John standing at parade’s rest, looking taller than everyone else around him, despite his actual height, and made a beeline for him at a murder scene. Sherlock had pointedly turned his back on the Constable and John as they talked. Later, John looked smug and pleased at Sherlock’s stroppy mood, and smirked, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Constable Martin would it?” Sherlock had denied it. John called him a “filthy liar” and “gorgeous” and “the only one for me”, took him into his mouth to show him just how much he was wanted.

There would be no smug fellatio this day though.

Sherlock realized he was wrong. The blonde was not an unknown person, not a potential new conquest. They were too familiar. This was someone John knew, and very intimately. Was she a casual tryst, or a former girlfriend? Sherlock couldn’t tell from that far away. But he was not going to try to find out. He had seen enough, the jealousy he felt was inconvenient and childish. He stopped and retrieved his mobile phone from the Belstaff’s inner pocket, fingers flying over the screen.

 

I’ll see you later at home – SH

 

John didn’t look away from the blonde woman as Sherlock watched for a full minute. Maybe he hadn’t heard his phone. Or maybe he was ignoring it because he didn’t want to be rude. _Old girlfriend then_. Someone he cared about and didn’t want to insult by checking his phone mid-flirt.

Sherlock refused to feel this way for one more second. He was going to head home and delete the blonde, or he would try at least. He’d never succeeded in deleting anything about John, but maybe he could delete her, or at least her face. Maybe just her breasts.

Sherlock turned towards the rink’s exit, annoyed with himself that he agreed to ever come to this ridiculous party.

Without warning or ceremony, mind full of John, Sherlock found himself sitting on the ice, excruciating pain splitting through his left arm, before he even knew he had fallen. A young couple came over to ask if he was all right. Sherlock nodded, held his arm close to his body and struggled to stand. He had to shuffle slowly towards the edge of the rink. To his immediate and eternal mortification, John was skating towards him.

Sherlock turned away from John and skated as fast as he could towards the exit. He made it to the edge of the ice and stopped abruptly, nearly falling again, when his skates hit the rubber mat on the other side of the rink’s wall.

His tolerance for pain was extremely high but as his arm bumped against his body as he was flailing around, his discomfort was announced to all of those around him with each sharply inhaled breath.

“Sherlock!” John shouted.

Sherlock hobbled along on narrow blades, walking towards the benches. _Stop, you idiot, you’re going to have to take off your skates at some point._

Sherlock sighed, turned around, still clutching his arm to his body.

“John.”

“Sherlock,” he said reaching for his sleeve, “all right?”

“Yes, John.”

“Sweetheart,” John said quietly, “I saw you fall, you tripped on something. Let me see your arm.”

“I’m fine, John. I just want to go home. I’ll see you there later.”

“What? No, we’re going home together but I’m going to look at your arm first.”

That was the moment that Sherlock gave up. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get his skates off without help. He had heard bone crack. Next stop would be A&E. _Wasn’t it hateful?_

Sherlock sighed, sat down on the nearest bench and let John touch his arm. His touch was so gentle. He cradled his forearm with one had in his palm, like a handshake, and the other hand at his elbow. It hurt. His arm hurt, probably a broken wrist. But it also hurt to look at John’s concerned face. His touch was gentle as his eyebrows knit together, mouth tightly held in a frown. _This man’s love is impossible._ Sherlock guiltily looked away.

By then Molly and Lestrade had made their way over to the bench.

“Sherlock tripped on something, I think he broke his wrist. I’m going to get him over to A&E.”

“Oh!” Molly gasped, “Can we do anything to help? Sherlock, are you all right?”

Sherlock ignored her. Actually, he was ignoring them all, rapidly sinking into a deeply silent sulk.

“Thank you, I’ll be able to handle this on my own. Sorry, Molly,” John smiled weakly.

“Let us know if we can do anything,” she said as they drifted away. They probably knew Sherlock would not appreciate their attention as John tended to him.

They didn’t speak as John removed Sherlock’s skates, got his shoes, put them on, and tied them. They quietly walked towards the exit and hailed a cab. They spent the next several hours seeing two different doctors. X-rays. Splint. Bandage. Pain meds. His distal radius was broken and no surgery was required, thankfully. He was in extreme pain whenever the lower part of his arm moved, but he would die before anyone would see evidence of that on his face or the pattern of his breathing.

xxx

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut again and saw so clearly the image of John leaning over and staring at the blonde woman’s cleavage. Who was she? Had she been one of John’s recent string of girlfriends? Or had she known Dr. John H. Watson, soldier, before his deployment to Afghanistan? Had she known the confident, scar- and limp-free, gorgeously young John Watson? Sherlock had seen photos of John before he was deployed, and although Sherlock adored and worshiped every centimeter of John’s body as it was today, he was unreasonably, impossibly, envious of the procession of men and women that had gotten to have _that_ John Watson.

He was such an idiot. He shouldn’t be thinking of this. He never would have been thinking about anything like this before John. John had made him like everyone else. An idiot. _Sentiment. Human error._

He made a frustrated noise and buried his face into the crease between couch cushions, like a captured wild animal, willing its captor not to notice him. _I can’t see you. You can’t see me._

Sherlock heard John go from the bathroom to their bedroom, banging around a bit in the wardrobe.

He heaved a huge pathetic sigh, hunched his shoulders even more so his tall frame was as ball-like as he could make it. He cradled his casted arm to his waist.

“Love?”

Sherlock felt John’s hand on his shoulder and a soft kiss to his temple.

“Sweetheart, please.”

He wondered why John insisted on using such embarrassing pet names for him. He loved it, but would never, to anyone, ever admit that. In fact, he usually rolled his eyes. John probably should have been put off by now. _Why does he insist on using such terms of endearment in the face of such obvious disdain?_

“Please, what, John?” Sherlock snarled without moving his body.

“Please stop acting like an arse, turn around, and let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m not tired. I’m not moving.”

John sighed, “All right, love. Suit yourself.”

Sherlock heard him walk into their bedroom, get into bed, and turn off the light.

 

He felt sick to his stomach from the drugs they gave him at A&E. John had made sure he would only be given a small dose of opiates. They sent him home with some high milligram ibuprofen and a sling. It was time for another dose, and he could tolerate the ibuprofen, but he probably should have eaten when John offered his help. John was in bed and Sherlock supposed he deserved to be left alone to sleep. _He deserves so much better than you._ Thoughts swirled around in his drug-sick mind. _You are so stupid thinking that someone like John Watson would tolerate your petty jealously. Your rudeness._ Sherlock made a soft whining noise and willed his thoughts to quiet by focusing on his breathing.

He must have dozed a bit. He awoke with his face smashed up next to the back of the couch with a blanket over him. _Bloody hell, my arm fucking hurts._ Light was streaming in from the kitchen and there was soft clanking of pottery and cutlery. _John._

He heard John approach and he must have noticed that Sherlock wasn’t breathing like a sleeping person because he said, “Sherlock. Come on now, please sit up a bit at take this.”

“What is it?”

“I made you some broth and tea. It’s past time for your pills too.”

“It’s the middle of the night, John. You should be sleeping.”

“I was,” John said softly.

Sherlock lifted his head, twisted around, and looked at John. His tone of voice was off somehow. Sleepy. Tense.

John looked down at the two mugs in his hands and handed them to Sherlock without making eye contact. His lips were tense and there was slight furrow between his brows.

Sherlock made him look like that. He had disappointed him by acting like an arse a few hours before. And now John was up in the middle of the night. He’d probably set an alarm, knowing when Sherlock would need medication. He got up especially to take care of him. This fact made Sherlock so furious that he turned away from John again and gritted out, “Go away. In fact, why don’t you really go away,” he turned back towards John and glared, “Go find yourself someone who loves you. Someone who will want to be coddled and treated like a child. Someone who will put breasts in your face, and laugh at your inane jokes, and who’ll want to spend the rest of their pathetic life with you,” he hissed, “Leave. Me. Alone.”

With that, Sherlock got up with some difficulty, walked into the bathroom, and slammed the door. John hadn’t tried to help him stand.

He leaned up against the back of the door, panting. Shame filled him, as his arm throbbed. He dropped, sitting on the floor leaning against the door. He hung his head and as his vision swam with tears, he wondered for the thousandth time if this would be the moment John Watson would give up and finally leave him. He thought he probably wouldn’t make it very long without him, but who would care?

His genius had only gotten him so far. People were on the verge of telling him to piss off permanently before he’d met John. Lestrade only put up with him because his tiny little brain couldn’t solve even the simplest case, and with a support team that included Anderson, how could he? Molly put up with him because she wanted to date him or fuck him. He never could understand that. As if it would ever, ever happen with her. He respected Molly but he would never, could never. He was only ever attracted to one person in his entire life. He wanted John from the moment they met, and wanted him all of the time now that he was finally allowed to touch. He felt it like an itch under his skin and a quiver in his groin that could be tamed temporarily if necessary, but would always return. It had been years, and he wasn’t bored, and hadn’t found John any less attractive. In fact, he felt more possessive and more needy than ever.

Somehow John made him want to be better. But he couldn’t do it. Because he was a sodding miserable arsehole who acted perpetually like a teenaged drama queen. He couldn’t help but shit all over everyone. Including his beloved John. _Yes, beloved, that’s what he is, you idiot._

_I need to fix this. I’m not strong enough to fix this._

Sherlock heaved out a few breaths that he would later deny were sobs. He stayed there for a long while, leaning against the door cradling his broken arm.

There was a forceful rap at the door, “Sherlock.”

He raised his head and frowned. John sounded livid.

“Sherlock Holmes. If you are anywhere near the door I suggest you move away from it in the next three seconds.”

When John spoke in his Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Fuck You Very Much voice, he meant what he said.

Sherlock had the fleeting thought that if John tried to open the door and he was still sitting against it his arm might get jostled and that would probably fucking hurt. Without further consideration, and out of sheer instinctual self-preservation, he shuffled away from the door so that he was sitting on the floor with his back to the tub, facing the door. John did not count to three, but opened the door in four seconds.

He stood there in the doorway, wearing pajama bottoms and his dressing gown. He kept his hand on the doorknob and his other hand clenched in a fist at his side. His hair was sticking up in the back, as if he had been rousted from sleep. Which he had. Despite the indignity of his hairstyle, he glared down at Sherlock with unblinking midnight blue eyes. He stared for a full 60 seconds, during which his breathing became more rapid, but he never blinked. Sherlock was caught in his sights and could do nothing but try to breathe and hold his eyes. Despite his deep respect, and maybe fear, for this John Watson, he tried to convey a look of cool nonchalance.

John sniffed. A sharp inhale from one side of his nose, and half of his mouth followed his nostrils movement. Like a bull after hearing ‘Olé’.

 _Oh shit._ The rage sniff, if directed at you, meant you were fucked now. Say goodnight.

When he spoke, his voice was very low and gruff. It was almost a whisper, “Sherlock. Holmes. Stand. Up.”

Sherlock stood up slowly.

John placed his left hand around Sherlock’s right bicep, gripping slightly. It was not soft, but it wasn’t hurting him. It didn’t feel like a threat, but a controlled restraint to guide Sherlock where he wanted him. “Now,” John smiled slightly, however, it was entirely without humor, voice still gruff, “we are going to go to bed.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth opened, about to voice his surprise.

Before he could utter one sound, John dropped his smile, squeezed his arm hard, and scowled.

He closed his mouth and lowered his eyes. John led him into their room to his side of the bed.

“Sit.”

Sherlock sat.

“Stay.”

He huffed. _What am I, a pet?_ He found that thought strangely arousing and pointedly decided to ignore that for now.

John glared at him with both fists clenched, “You will stay here and you will not move.”

John turned and walked out of the room, towards the kitchen, Sherlock supposed.

He sunk down onto the bed on his right side, his head was buried in John’s pillow, feet still on the floor. He inhaled and tried not to think. The pillow smelled of John’s sensible shampoo, his light cologne, and a bit of musk from the heat and sweat they had shared just that morning. He tried not to think about how disappointed and furious John was with him, but humiliation and sadness gripped him again, and he started breathing heavily. John would make sure he was taken care of, but he was convinced John would someday tire of putting up with his shit. _Would he leave now?_ Maybe he just needed some air, or a few days to remember that there was something that had kept him with Sherlock for all of these years.

_I won’t last without him. I won’t make it a month._

He squeezed his eyes shut, as was his M.O., and waited to see what John would do.

What John did was enter the bedroom quietly, with two mugs in one hand, and two ibuprofen in the other.

“Please sit up, drink this, and take these.”

Sherlock sat up and slowly took the pills from John’s warm hand. His shame kept his eyes from moving to John’s face.

He took the mug of broth and swallowed the pills. The broth was salty and warm. The perfect temperature, and he swallowed the whole cup in a few swigs.

John handed him the tea. It was exactly how he preferred it, of course.

 _What was he going to do without John’s perfect tea?_ He pushed away the unbidden thought and sipped.

When Sherlock was done with the tea, John took the mug from him. He walked out the door towards the kitchen. Sherlock heard him depositing the mugs in the sink and stepping back towards the bedroom. John stood in the doorway with fists clenched by his sides.

Sherlock wouldn’t look up, he stayed sat on the bed, and looked at his pathetic wrapped arm resting in his lap, brain whirring with thoughts of redemption, gratitude, apologies, fixes. Gone was the angry petulant idiot who had stupidly told John to go away. He could only think of one word now. _Don’t_.

They stayed that way for several minutes. He saw John’s fists relax a bit, and without looking up, saw his body grow slightly less tense. He wondered if he should say something but he thought bitterly that he had probably said quite enough.

“I’m not sure why you think you can say such hurtful things to me,” John said quietly.

Sherlock said nothing for a few long moments. He didn’t think he could…he didn’t think he should say terrible things to John. He just did. _Why is everything in my head such a mess?_ He made a frustrated noise, and finally looked up at John. He was feeling better because of John’s ministrations, but he knew he must look as emotionally wrecked as he felt. That was confirmed when John’s eyes met his, and John’s face softened only slightly.

“You really should go,” Sherlock choked out, “I’ll only continue to hurt you. You don’t deserve it and I’ll keep hurting you. You should never have chosen me. This.” He waved his hand vaguely between them.

John looked at him with such sadness that Sherlock had to look down.

“For a genius, you really are quite dim.”

Sherlock looked up again, surprised.

John looked smug. A long time ago, Sherlock had told him that he was one of the only people he’d ever met that ever surprised him. John wore it like a badge of honor.

“You are a sodding idiot, really. What is it like in your funny little head? It must be so horrifying to believe you don’t deserve love. Who did this to you? Why are you like this? I’m not going anywhere!” John was shouting by the end. Totally exasperated, he threw up both hands and looked up to the ceiling. “You drive me barking mad, you know that?” With that, John lunged forward and grabbed him around the shoulders. He stood between Sherlock’s open knees and cradled his head to his chest, kissing the frizzy top of his head, “Round the bend, I am.”

Sherlock slumped against John’s chest, still favoring his broken arm, but snaked his right arm around his waist and squeezed so hard that John let out a whoosh of breath.

“John,” he moaned.

“Love,” he started. But Sherlock let out a gasping sob at the endearment. John stopped and squeezed him harder.

“Love, please,” John pulled away, Sherlock reluctantly let go and tipped his head up to face him. “Sherlock. Love. I think I know what’s happening. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Now lie down.”

For the second time that day, Sherlock gave up. John unwound his arms from around his shoulders and stepped back a bit. He let him fall to his side, adjust his aching arm, and covered him with the duvet, despite the fact he was still in his trousers and shirt.

John walked around to the other side of the bed, climbed in behind Sherlock and beneath the duvet, laid his head on the pillow, and brought one hand up to gently stroke Sherlock’s nape curls.

John’s touch made Sherlock’s chest ache more than his arm. John stopped petting him and settled his head more firmly into the pillow. Within a few minutes he was smacking his lips and sighing. His breathing evened out and Sherlock knew he was asleep. It would take long minutes before much needed sleep found him, amidst his swirling thoughts of _apology_ and _please_ and _forever_. Somehow he slept, albeit fitfully.

Eyes still shut, he awoke around 9 am judging from the sounds filtering up from Baker Street.

He didn’t move a muscle. John was not in bed with him. No familiar warmth, no familiar breath.

He wanted to stay quiet, he really did. It was in that moment that the pain of his arm overtook his self-control and he gasped, “John!” and sat up, legs still under the duvet, clutching his arm.

Immediately, the reply came from just outside of the bedroom door, “Here, love. I’m right here.”

John appeared in the doorway with a glass of water and pills. He walked to Sherlock’s side and shoved the items towards his good hand. He flung the duvet back, and placed his bare feet on the floor. Without a sound, he took the water, swallowed the pills, and placed the glass on the side table.

John stood there, staring into Sherlock’s eyes sternly. He ran his hand over Sherlock’s forehead, pushing his fringe back, then trailed fingertips over the side of his face.

“You, with your cheekbones, and your eyes, and those lips, are impossibly beautiful to me.”

 _What? Do you compliment someone right before you break his heart?_ That didn’t sound right, but Sherlock didn’t know with John. _  
_ John kept his hand warmly on the side of his neck, maybe feeling the pulse in his carotid. He would be able to tell that it sped up.

“I want you all of the time. You’re like sex on two legs, and what glorious legs they are.”

Sherlock gaped at him. He was so confused. But he flushed at the beautiful praise. _What is happening?_

“I chose you…this,” he waved his hand between them just as Sherlock had done the night before, “because no one in my life has ever, ever made me feel like you do. I am stronger now because I am with you, in love with you. I’m better with you. I’m braver, wiser, kinder with you.”

Sherlock kept staring at John. He didn’t quite understand how John could feel this way about him, but he definitely felt this way about John. His chin quivered just a bit and he felt tears sting his eyes. He was going to cry again. _Oh god._

“I’m funnier with you,” John smirked with a mischievous glint as he looked down, “I’m sexier with you.”

Sherlock half-sobbed, half-snorted at that.

“I’m way more handsome and charming with you. Not as gorgeous as you, but I do all right,” he wistfully look away.

Sherlock was giggling now. John Watson made him laugh, and feel better, and he thought his heart would burst with pure admiration and adoration for this glorious, brave, kind man, who had chosen him.

“My cock is definitely bigger with you.”

Sherlock threw his head back and belly laughed. John joined him laughing, slid down to his knees so he could wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist, and bury his head against his belly. The laughter faded, they stayed that way, rocking slightly, for a few minutes.

John pulled back, looked up at his face, and quietly said, “It’s very simple. I love you and I’m never going to leave you. Not even when you act like a jealous, viciously rude, ungrateful twat. Because most of the time, the way you love me takes my breath away, and I have to fucking pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming this life. With you.”

Sherlock bent down and kissed John lightly on the forehead, pulled away and looked at him. He bent down again and placed light kisses all over John’s face, his eyelids, cheekbones, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the swelling under his eyes, the side of his lips which quirked up. Sherlock stopped, pulled slightly back, and John opened his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John.”

It was one of a handful of times Sherlock had ever said those words to John, or in front of John, for that matter. The words felt foreign coming out of his mouth, and he was slightly surprised to note that he actually felt remorse. He wasn’t just saying it because that’s what he was supposed to do. John made him want to do better.

“I know, sweetheart,” John reached up to cup his face in his hands, and very gently kissed him. “Now, tell me what happened to you out there on the ice.”

Sherlock could see the mischievous glint back in John’s eyes, and thought there was a slightly smug quirk to his lips.

 _Bugger. He knows._ John kept holding his face.

“I fell.”

“Yeeeess,” John drawled and nodded, prompting him.

“I fell…down?”

“Sherlock.” John was not buying his act, and dropped his hands, sitting back on his heels, still between Sherlock’s open knees.

He sighed, looked away, and wondered if this last 24-hour period could be any more humiliating.

“I was distracted.”

“By what?” John bit his bottom lip as he tried to suppress a grin. His chin was dipped slightly down, so he was looking up at Sherlock through his lashes, eyes so blue in the morning sunlight. His stomach flipped. _I want to eat him up._

He let out a frustrated noise and gritted out, “You know already. Why do you insist on torturing me so?”

“Because you deserve it you miserable arse.” John smiled, “Plus it makes me wickedly giddy to think of how possessive you are of me.” He hastily added, sincerely, “But I am ashamed, because I shouldn’t feel that way when you are in pain.” John rubbed up and down his shins and calves.

Sherlock’s traitorous mind just couldn’t let it go.

_Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask._

“Who is she?”

John stilled his hands, hesitated, “She’s someone I went to medical school with. We dated,” he looked away, “She said I looked the same. Which isn’t true, of course, but it felt good.”

“Did you love her?”

John sat up and grabbed Sherlock’s face again. “No, my love. I did not. I’m telling you that I am weak and she was working my ego yesterday.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock thought John was the perfect human being and couldn’t fathom his confession of insecurity.

“Sometimes it’s hard being in your shadow.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow as John dropped his hands again.

“You’re brilliant, an actual genius. I’ve already said this but you are strangely beautiful, stupidly graceful, and so fucking sexy.”

“No one thinks that, John.”

“Sherlock. Everyone thinks that.”

“No they don’t,” Sherlock simply stared, “Why do they?”

John ignored his question and rolled his eyes.

Despite his confusion, Sherlock allowed himself to relax when John pushed up, sat on the bed next to him, and pulled him into an embrace.

John pulled back but was still lightly holding his arm around Sherlock’s back, “You’re going to have to start believing in here,” John touched the end of his index finger to his chest, “that I love you and I’m not going anywhere until you say you don’t want me anymore.”

Sherlock hugged him back and said, “John, I will always want you.”

“Always?”

“Yep,” and he popped the ‘p’ as he sometimes did for emphasis.

“Sweetheart,” John said fondly.

Out of habit, trying to maintain some thread of who he thought he was, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the endearment.

“I know you love it. I can tell by the little hitch of breath you take before you roll your eyes.”

“I don’t love it,” he pouted.

“You’re a dirty liar.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“How about some new ones?” John smiled, looked up to the ceiling and started, “Dear. Darling. Petit Chou. Baby. Pet. Dollface. Lovemuffin. Sugarbottom. Fancypants. Snook….oooofff,” John’s breath left him as he was tackled to the mattress.

Sherlock had quite enough of the string of undignified, yet strangely affecting, pet names.

“Watch your arm, love.”

“I’m fine, John. Please.”

“Please what, Dumpling?”

Sherlock groaned, “Stop that, and kiss me.”

A chaste peck to his lips was all he got before John said, “Lay on your back. Here.” John helped him to maneuver around the duvet so that when he finally settled he would be underneath it.

Sherlock was on his back, left (broken) arm out to his side.

John crawled over him, between Sherlock’s spread legs. He fluffed up the pillow underneath his head, “Comfortable?”

“Yes, John,” he rumbled.

John was looking up and down his body, his gaze coming to rest on his trousers and the impressive bulge they didn’t do much to hide.  
“You sure about that?” nodding towards his crotch, “We can cuddle a bit and wait for a few days.”

“John,” he chided, hoping he was using his most haughty tone, as if John should know better, “when I said I _will_ always want you, I meant I always want you. Want you now,” he demanded and pulled John flush to his chest with his good arm. He snaked his hand up through John’s hair at the nape of his neck, and guided him down where he could slot their lips together firmly. Sherlock grabbed at the short blonde and gray hairs on the back of his head. John’s gasped. _Perfect_. Open mouth, Sherlock licked into it to wetly slip his tongue against John’s. John was passive, just along for the ride, letting Sherlock guide the position of his head, but Sherlock knew that wouldn’t last, so he took full advantage of trying to reach every centimeter of John’s tongue with his own.

One of John’s arms was cradling his head, the other was unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. It had been a day and a night in the same clothes and he was happy for multiple reasons to be out of them. His shirt cuffs were undone, so John was able to open his shirt, lift him up to sitting, and peel it off of him easily, even over the short cast of his left wrist.

John sat up and lifted off his t-shirt, lifted his hips and wiggled out of his pajamas, leaving him naked, on top, just where Sherlock wanted him.

He pulled John down for another searing slippery kiss, while John undid the placard of his trousers, deftly with one hand unzipped the fly, gently pulled out Sherlock’s stiff cock, gave it one slow thorough stroke, and abruptly sat up.

“I can’t tell you how fucking sexy it is that you don’t wear pants,” John murmured, while Sherlock lifted his hips, allowing John to pull off his trousers with one fluid motion.

“The cut of my trousers would require bespoke pants and I simply can’t be bothered.”

“Well, in this instance, I’m glad you’re such a lazy git, because it’s so fucking hot.” John crawled back up onto Sherlock and slotted their bodies together, thigh to thigh, cock to cock, chest to chest, John’s mouth on Sherlock’s neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

“I’ll never wear pants again,” he vowed, and added, “Plus I was quite fond of the look on your face the first time you removed my trousers. I revisit it in my memory palace more often than I should admit.”

“Yeah?” John sighed, as he kissed his jaw, and tightened his grip around their cocks and thrusting lightly. Sherlock’s cock was unassuming when flaccid, but when he was aroused it filled out to be longer and thicker than average, with a gorgeous head that John called “pretty”. John’s cock was shorter, but thicker than his. One of Sherlock’s very favorite things to observe was John Watson getting an erection. John would stroke himself or sometimes Sherlock would touch him and just watch. John would simply stay quiet, with half-lidded eyes clouded with lust while it happened. The sight was so erotic, turned him on so much, that he could only look every few times they had sex. It was very overwhelming.

“I remember the first time you ever put your hands on me. You first touched me on my cheekbones, then my lips,” Sherlock whispered.

John moaned quietly, and their cocks slid together deliciously. He propped himself up to look into Sherlock’s eyes, hand still slowly but firmly stroking around them.

“Then I put my fingers in your mouth and watched those luscious lips close around them. I don’t know how I didn’t come right then,” he panted, “And now that I know what those lips can really do,” John groaned at his own words, and the motion of his small hand around them both, “It was beyond my furthest imagination what your lips can actually do.”

Sherlock moaned, “I want use them now, John. Please can you scoot up put your cock in my mouth?”

John’s hand stopped moving, he shut his eyes, and let out a shuddering breath. He swallowed thickly, “Um. No, sweetheart, not this time, when you’re a little stronger. Just kiss me, please.”

Sherlock answered by lifting his head up to bring their lips together. They slid their tongues together with quick, repeated licks. John slowed the kiss, nipped on his upper lip, sucked his lower lip into his mouth and slowly licked it back and forth.

They moaned together, then John whispered, “Your lips, my god, Sherlock.”

John picked up the pace of stroking his hand along the lengths of their cocks, then he abruptly removed his hand and put it right in front of Sherlock’s face. “Lick,” he commanded.

He groaned and pushed his head up so that he could lick John’s palm and fingers. His eyes never left John’s. John’s cock jumped against his own.

John’s eyes darkened, and eyelids drooped, “Fuck, Sherlock. Your tongue.”

Then they were kissing, John’s hand back on them, much more slick now. John was thrusting and kissing and gripping them tightly. They rocked together in a rhythm with one goal. This was not a time for teasing or drawing it out. This was a time for imminent crashing climaxes.

Sherlock held John tightly around the shoulders with his good arm, the other flung up above his head. His mouth was open, panting, and John’s face was at his neck licking from one freckle to the next.

“Sherlock, yes! Fuck, you feel so good. You’re going to make me come,” he gasped, “Yeeeesssss…” He froze, back arched slightly so his face was buried even deeper into Sherlock’s throat, and came over his hand and pulsing onto Sherlock’s stomach. He shuddered through it while Sherlock held onto him. John’s hand was moving slightly, spreading come over the both of their cocks. His cock gave one last pulse, and he moved his body so now his hand was only on Sherlock.

He raised his chin so bite down on Sherlock’s earlobe, moaned, then whispered, “You make me feel so good, you’re amazing, brilliant. There’s no one like you, you’re the only one. I adore you.”

Sherlock was not going to last, the scent of John, his hand moving faster and faster, and the dizzying things he was saying. His focus was solely on John’s voice in his ear, and hand on his cock, pulling and twisting, playing him expertly.

John lifted his head, shifted his bite to Sherlock’s lower lip. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, he pulled it into his mouth and sucked. Sherlock moaned lavishly.

John tried to maintain contact, but had to let go of his lip to say, “That’s it, you’re so good for me, my beautiful boy,” Sherlock was done, that did it. _Beautiful boy_. He threw his head back, thrusting his cock further up into John’s hand, stilling for just a moment. John pulled his hand from root to tip, with a small twist at the end.

He cried out, cock twitching rapidly over and over as he spilled through John’s fingers onto his stomach, come mixing with John’s.

“Oh my god, so fucking beautiful, my gorgeous boy.”

Sherlock moaned again, “Oh my god.”

They embraced, rocking slightly. Sherlock’s eyes were closed as John placed small kisses all over his cheek, ear, and neck, their breath coming back to normal.

“Mmmm….”

“Liked that, did you?” John was a bit more coherent, having come first.

He breathed out, “Obvious.”

John chuckled quietly. He grabbed Sherlock’s face in both hands and kissed him deep and filthy. Sherlock responded enthusiastically, trying to put all of the passion he felt for this man into the kiss. John pulled away slightly, keeping his hands on Sherlock’s face, and just looked.

“John, it would appear that you have discovered something about me that I did not know,” referring to whatever that was, it was a least a spectacular orgasm that rocked him somewhere deep. _Some kind of daddy or submission kink, I suppose. How interesting._

“I knew.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How could you know? I didn’t know.”

“Because I’ve spent years studying you, my gorgeous boy,” Sherlock moaned and closed his eyes, as his cock tiredly twitched, “and you simply can’t get enough of my praise. You love the combination of praise, with a touch of my dominance, over anyone really, but over you, particularly” John smirked, knowingly.

“I’ll make a detective out of you yet.”

“Nah, you’re the world’s only consulting detective,” John tried to mimic his deep voice, but gave up in a fit of giggles. “You’re my world’s only Honeybum.”

Sherlock groaned, “That was terrible,” he grinned with a glint in his eyes, “Say it again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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